Southern Harm

by Travis Casey

  Oscar didn't feel so good about his meeting with the governor anymore.

  "You got anything else for me?" Roscoe asked.

  "No, Granddad. That about covers it." Oscar emitted a soft sigh. "Give my love to Grandma."

  "Will do, kiddo. And don't forget what I said."

  "I won't—"

  He'd hung up.

  Oscar needed to get back to the governor's office to smooth things over before his grandfather tried to rectify any misunderstandings. Roscoe had a habit of trying to sort things out for Oscar and his twin sister, Juliet. His sister played on it and had Roscoe wrapped around her little finger. But Oscar didn't care what Juliet got out of him. He wanted to establish himself as his own man.

  Maybe he could get back in the governor's good books without having to use Stacey to do it. To do that, he'd have to face the governor again on his own—man to man.

  Chapter 7

  The sun shone through the living room window, highlighting the dust on the glass coffee table.

  Oscar sat on the couch in a fluffy white robe, sipping his morning coffee as he rehearsed what he would say to the governor. He convinced himself the governor would give him a smile and a slap on the back, insisting there was nothing to apologize for. Then they would share a drink and a laugh, and everything would be back on track.

  He picked up the phone.

  "Governor Davenport's office, this is Glenda Jo, how may I help you?"

  "Oh hi, this is Oscar Novak-Chambers. I'd like to make an appointment to see the governor if he's available."

  "Yes, Mr. Novak-Chambers. The governor would like to see you too. You were on my list to call this morning."

  His heart sank. He had hoped to offer an apology before the governor had a chance to brew over the disappointment of Iron Skillet's finish. He could only surmise the governor wasn't the type of person to let dissatisfaction pass without comment.

  "Governor Davenport can see you at two o'clock this afternoon," Glenda Jo informed him. "Is that suitable?"

  An important man with a hole in his calendar? Not likely. An angry man making time to address an incompetent tip? Very likely.

  "Sir, are you still there?"

  "Two o'clock is fine. Thank you."

  ***

  Oscar slid into the slate-gray leather seat of his Escalade and drove to the capital in comfort—except for the unsettled grumbling in his stomach.

  Conrad greeted him at the door and gave a slight nod of warm recognition, then led him down the corridor and into the governor's office.

  The smell of fresh baked goods delighted his nostrils. He eyed a full plate of chocolate chip cookies sitting on the edge of the desk.

  Davenport stepped out from behind the desk, his face had hardened since their last meeting. He held his hand in the direction of the couches. "Shall we sit?"

  No handshake. No smile. No whiskey. No cookie—just an instruction.

  Oscar reran his practice speech through his mind. He was going to need all his charm to smooth this one over. Perhaps his grandfather was right, and the easiest way out of this would be to romance Stacey.

  The two men sat down. Oscar reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out his checkbook. "Governor, I can only apologize for the tip I gave you on Iron Skillet. That should never have happened. He was a sure thing."

  Davenport didn't blink. "I thought you would have known better than anyone there's no such thing as a sure thing."

  "No, of course not, but that horse was as close as you could get. Still, you put your faith in me, and I let you down. I apologize and want to put things right." Oscar held the pen at the ready, hovering over the open checkbook. "How much did you lose?"

  "Twenty-five thousand."

  "What?" Oscar hated it when his voice squeaked. He set the pen down. "That was a pretty hefty bet. I'm not sure—" Oscar stopped himself before admitting he didn't have twenty-five grand to cover it.

  "When I found out the odds were two to one, well, it wasn't much of a gamble, was it? But you said you knew your horses. I figured you'd give me something with long odds and I would have put five hundred bucks on it. But you suggested I back the favorite. So, why not? Stacey has her eye on a Mercedes. Fifty grand's worth of Mercedes. I thought I could get her the money in one hit. I didn't plan on you giving me a dud tip." His voice had remained calm and his look stern.

  "I'll make it up to you, Governor."

  "I know you will." A long pause brought a stillness to the room, making Oscar as uncomfortable as it was designed to. After making him sweat, the governor continued. "Do you think you can win this golf tournament with my daughter?"

  Oscar was aware Davenport didn't get to be governor by accepting answers like Not a chance in hell.

  "Well, sir, golf is a tricky game. You can never tell what might happen on the day. Stacey and I will do our best, of course, but we won't have any control over how the others play."

  Davenport stroked his chin. "So you wouldn't be entirely comfortable if I placed a substantial bet on you and Stacey to win it, is that what you're saying?"

  "Perhaps not, Governor. It may be a bit of a long shot."

  The governor stared at him.

  Oscar avoided his gaze, finding fascination with a piece of fluff on the carpet. He'd have a word with Conrad about that.

  "Will this make it easy for you?" A long pause forced Oscar to engage him. "I want you to lose."

  An involuntary muscle spasm turned into a faint smile. "That shouldn't be too difficult."

  "Good. I'm going to spread several thousand dollars around on you two to lose."

  "With all due respect, Governor, you may have a hard time getting odds on us losing. I mean, it's easy to lose a game, even if it doesn't look like we're throwing it on purpose."

  Davenport ran a hand through his silver hair. "Yes, I've thought of that. That's why I'm going to make you two the favorites. You like favorites, don't you, Oscar?"

  "Well, Governor, me being"—he air-quoted—"a 'newly qualified professional,' and Stacey being an unknown quantity on the golf course, I'd say the chances of us being the favorites are pretty slim."

  "Son, do you know how I got elected?"

  Oscar shot him with the ole finger gun and smiled. "With my vote, sir."

  Davenport shot him back with his own finger gun, smiled, and winked. "That, and the press." He sucked in a breath. "Oh yeah. I have lots of friends in the media, and I am going to see to it that they lodge a campaign naming you as the hottest new professional golfer to hit the circuit." He spread his hand over his head as if hanging out a banner. "Oscar Novak-Chambers returns from overseas as the top new golfer. You've won in Buenos Aires, Australia, Fiji, and every country you played in. There'll be places that people won't bother to check on. Since returning to the United States, your top form continues by setting course records and …" He waved his hand around. "Well, you get the picture. You're hot shit, Oscar. And Stacey is going to be the hottest rising amateur golfer and ready for the pro-am tournament like no other. You two will be the favorites after I get done spinning it."

  He was a man that liked power. That much was obvious.

  "Good plan, Governor. But if the bookies smell a fix, they'll disallow the bet, just like insurance companies look for ways not to have to pay out."

  He nodded slowly. "Yes, and that's why you're going to lose by a tight margin. Between one to three shots. I'll be betting on the spread."

  "What? That's insane. I can't guarantee a margin in a golf match. Win or lose. It's not possible. Especially playing with Stac—"

  The governor's eyebrows arched, so Oscar shut his mouth.

  "Does Stacey know about your plan?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. She wasn't kidding when she said she's a sore loser."

  Oscar stared at the coffee table, his mind filling with the impossibilities of making the governor's request a reality. But if he could pull it off, his leverage for special requests would have no bounds. "Governor, if I manage to do this, w
hat are my chances of calling in a favor. I mean, a really big favor."

  "Everything is open to negotiation, but I need to see some goodwill coming from your end first. Bankable goodwill, that is, and then we can talk."

  Oscar digested the magnitude of what he was being asked. "Of course. I understand." He stood up.

  Davenport rose to his feet and they exchanged a handshake.

  As Oscar walked to the exit, the door opened, and Stacey came in looking business-like in a dark blue skirt with matching blazer and open-toed high-heeled shoes.

  "Hello," Oscar greeted her, considering Grandad Roscoe's suggestion of fornicating his way out of this situation. It might have had better odds.

  "Oh, hi." She put her hand against his chest. "Look, about the other day, I'm sorry. I was totally stressed and wasn't very nice to you. I've been working on a difficult case, and funnily enough, one of the dirtbags involved was named Oscar. Anyway, it may have spilled over last time we met. I apologize if it did."

  His eyes widened. "Is this an apology? From a lawyer?"

  "You better grab it while you can." She winked.

  Oscar looked at the governor. Davenport beamed. He obviously had his daughter on a pedestal.

  He returned his attention to Stacey. "I never gave it a thought. You were the perfect lady. There's nothing to apologize for."

  She smiled. "Good. Anyway, I've been practicing my golf. I don't want to let you down." She glanced at her father. "Or you, Daddy. I know how much you want to beat Governor Posey and those Tennessee chuckleheads." She ran her fingers up and down the inside of Oscar's lapel. That talon-nailed gesture was enough to elevate his blood pressure. "I really think we can do this."

  He swallowed hard. "Well, you never know. It's ninety percent attitude."

  She inched closer. "I got plenty of attitude, Hot Dog Boy. So, you think we can win?"

  He could see twenty-five thousand reasons not to win, but he knew they had to put on a good show and play some damn-good golf. He rested his hand on her shoulder. "Like a lady once told me, 'Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing.' "

  "I'm glad we see it the same way. We'll make a good team."

  Oscar left the governor's mansion and walked to the truck. He sat in the comfort of the leather seat, staring at the Cadillac logo in the middle of the steering wheel.

  He remembered back to when he was fifteen. His dad caught him smoking and made him smoke a full pack of cigarettes in one sitting. He never smoked again. But as he sat in the truck, he wished his father hadn't caught him—because he really could have used a cigarette.

  ***

  Stacey stood at the window in the hallway, staring at Oscar sitting in his truck. He was slumped over the wheel. She didn't know what he and her father had discussed, but she hoped she managed to cheer him up with her apology. She didn't want him thinking she was a total bitch.

  "You changed your tune," Governor Davenport said as he walked up from behind her. "You pretty much told me to mind my own business when I mentioned that Oscar would be a good catch, then you come in drowning him with the Davenport charm."

  She turned away from the window. "Well, I've been thinking. You've gone to a lot of trouble getting me a credible golf partner to win this tournament. I wanted Jett Johnson for my own selfish reasons. Sometimes I think of you as just Dad and forget you're the governor. I need to be more supportive and play the relations game." She pushed her bangs to one side. "If Oscar is going to play his best golf, he has to like his partner. I don't want to be a hindrance or source of discontentment. I know men, and an ounce of encouragement and ego massaging generates a ton of desire to please and impress. So now that Oscar thinks I like him, he'll try to dazzle me with his golfing brilliance—if he has any."

  Her father scratched his head. "But you do like him, don't you?"

  "For the course, not the horse. I just want to win and make you proud."

  She could see it in his eyes. He'd like nothing more than bragging rights about her winning. He always made sacrifices for his daughter to make sure she had the best of everything. It was her turn to repay him. She just hoped that damn Oscar wouldn't blow it.

  Chapter 8

  "Oscar, darling." Miriam Novak greeted her grandson with an elongated darling as he stepped inside the country mansion. "I'm so delighted you could make it."

  Oscar hugged her and placed a delicate kiss on her cheek. "Your company and Eleanor's cooking? I wouldn't miss it for the world, Grandma."

  "You're such a charmer. Just like your father."

  She looped her arm through his and escorted him through the open double doors and into the dining room. The long mahogany table dominated the center of the room, highlighted by two silver candlesticks, each holding five candles. The flames flicked the air with a subtle peacefulness.

  Roscoe sat at the head of the table, sipping wine, when Miriam and Oscar walked in. The two of them sat opposite one another, flanking Roscoe.

  "Hi, Granddad," Oscar said, spreading his napkin over his lap.

  Roscoe returned the greeting and poured Oscar and Miriam some wine.

  As Eleanor, the maid, dished out chicken and dumplings with fried okra, Oscar tasted the wine and wasn't disappointed. Roscoe had exquisite taste and was the only man he knew who would open a forty-dollar bottle of Chablis to wash down a fifty-cent dumpling.

  "So, Oscar …" Grandma Miriam began.

  Oscar rolled his eyes, knowing where she was going with the conversation just by her tone.

  "Is there any chance I might see a great-grandchild before I start pushing up daisies? And don't say, 'Ask Juliet.' I'll talk to her later. You're twenty-six years old and should be settling down." She leaned toward him, whispering, "You're not gay, are you?"

  Roscoe's cheeks puffed out as he held a mouthful of food in his jowls, staring at Oscar.

  "No, Grandma, I'm not gay."

  "Well, it's okay if you are. You can still adopt."

  Roscoe gulped hard. "Hell's bells, woman," he shouted. "Don't encourage the boy. Don't push him down that road by nagging him to the point that he wants to avoid women altogether. Geez."

  Miriam shot him a dirty look and cleared her throat, then ignored Roscoe and patted Oscar's hand. "Just think about it, dear. You don't want to be an old goat like your grandfather pushing a baby buggy and telling the child about his or her dead great-grandmother."

  "Yes, I’ll think about it, Grandma." Oscar took in a mouthful of dumpling.

  Roscoe waved his hand around. "Forget all that nonsense. How's the polo park coming?"

  Oscar dabbed his mouth with the linen napkin. "A few little snags, but it's on track."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Leave him alone, Roscoe. Let's not talk business at the dinner table," Miriam insisted. "We should be discussing Oscar's paternal future and possible mates."

  "Welcome to the 'Insert Bride Here' competition, boy," Roscoe whispered.

  ***

  After dinner, Roscoe suggested he and Oscar retire to the parlor for brandy.

  "I really can't, Granddad. I have the golf tournament in the morning and need to be sharp. There's a lot riding on it."

  His grandfather fluttered his lips. "Pfft. Don't be such a wimp. In my day, I used to polish off a bottle of Wild Turkey and be on the tee at seven the next morning. Sometimes I can't believe you're Tyler's boy. He never turns down a drink. Come on, have one drink with an old man." He pinched his fingers together, barely holding them apart. "Just a little, biddy, baby one."

  Oscar sighed. Sometimes Roscoe was like a little kid goading him into a dare. He heard it all before and knew his next line would be I don't abide sissies.

  "Okay." He held up a finger. "Just the one, then I have to go."

  Roscoe beamed. "That's my boy."

  He slapped his grandson on the back as they walked to the parlor. Roscoe opened a wooden globe at the equator, housing a crystal decanter of his favorite brandy, Remy Martin. He poured them each a generous portion int
o balloon-shaped glasses. They sat in leather wing-back chairs with a side table in between them. Roscoe pulled out a cigar from a walnut cigar box on the table and fired it up. He offered Oscar one, but he declined.

  Roscoe chomped on the cigar as he spoke. "Now that Grandma's out of the way, tell me what's really going on at the polo park."

  "I told you, everything's fine, thanks to you. I had a few overruns, but we got that sorted out. You've helped out plenty." Oscar didn't want to worry him in his twilight years. Besides, his dad always told him you couldn't go to hell for business lies.

  "Was that fifty grand I loaned you enough?"

  It would have been had his thirty-three-to-one horse crossed the finish line ahead of the rest of the pack, but it didn't. Now Oscar wished he had spent it on the seating like he said he was going to. He'd be lucky to get any seats at all at the rate he was going. At least he didn't put it all on horses, having kept ten grand for his living expenses. But if his dad found out he was tapping Granddad Roscoe to put money on horses, he'd have to learn to speak Russian, because that's where his dad would send him—Siberia. He'd be better off getting Louie Gomez to go double or nothing. "Don't worry, Granddad. It'll all come good in the end."

  Roscoe poked at him with his brandy snifter. "You know if you have any problems, you can come to me, right?"

  "Thanks, Granddad, but everything's fine."

  Roscoe sipped his drink, his face filled with delight as he savored the flavors of his Remy Martin.

  "So, you feeling good about your chances in this golf competition tomorrow?" Roscoe asked.

  "Not really."

  "Why not? It's been in the news that you and Sally are the favorites."

  "It's Stacey."

  "Whatever."

  Oscar rotated his arm and feigned a grimace. "My shoulder's been a bit sore lately. Not sure if I'll make it eighteen holes."

  "I'm not surprised. Must have been all those long-haul flights. It's been in the papers about you jet-setting the globe playing golf. You should have told me you were in Australia. I got a cousin down there. You could have looked him up." He squinted, trying to tear down Oscar's defenses.